THE TREE
The bedroom was dim, dark, and was engulfed by the warmth of the radiator. Warmth lingered and crawled about the room, it was pleasantly intoxicating. In the corner of the room planted firm was a lamp; its yellowish sickly glow shot at the wall, it’s last bit of light stumbling further across the wall but failed as it was restricted due to its design and features.
Silence hovered about stealthily like death creeping up, like water coming up to the shore and its nothingness had allowed me to embrace a very enigmatic sense of emptiness.
Across the room, were windows, windows that had been pelted and shot at by tiny yet swift droplets of rain. Silently, steam wrapped itself around the windows devouring any last bit of glass surface; as the rain cut through the blurriness like butter with easy and efficiency.
The cut marks had allowed me a very little view of the bleakness that had been born outside it was surely dark. The wind had seemed to break the barrier of silence, its diabolical roar, and howling viciously beat against the windows. Its hunger to creep inside was evident, its howling grew louder and became horrific by the second; its whispers signaled distress and great torment.
Through the discombobulated window and across the crystallised surface of the cracked road, was a tree. A tall tree who was too old to carry on, its skeletal branches swayed in the roughness of the wind.
Each weak branch narrated a story that was too filled with melancholy. The disfigured tree provided no more, as its leaves fell, once hitting the ground crackling as the wind had cradled them somewhere far in the midst.
Multiple metallic and rusty lamp posts let its array of light cover tiny surfaces of the ground; at this point, it was the only form of light. Hope was rising, but gradually died out once again as the black branches of the tree beat the air like a bird beats its wings.
Drowsiness had come over me, the view blurred as I tossed and turned and I was gone. Within a flash, my sore eyes had let itself open to a new beginning. It was 5:45 am it had seemed as if no time had run.
There the tree stood hunched in a Machiavellian manner as it gazed through my dark and empty pupils. The rain had stopped its remains dripped of objects and the tree returned to its normal state, silence in suffering.
